


Bertie vs the Feudal Spirit

by clearinghouse



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Discussion of Racehorses, Explaining what an SP is, Fluff, Jeeves POV, Jeeves and Wooster Exchange, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 00:38:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10547060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: Jeeves keeps his employer entertained while the young master takes a bath—then later finds the favour unexpectedly returned.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Unfathomablespace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unfathomablespace/gifts).



> Written for [unfathomablespace](https://unfathomablespace.tumblr.com/) for the [Jeeves and Wooster Gift Exchange](https://jeevesandwoosterexchange.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, who requested a scene of Jeeves in the bath, with Bertie looking after him for a change. Enjoy!

“Jeeves! What does SP stand for?”

I heard this call from the proximity of the bathroom. As I had prepared the bath for Mr Wooster only minutes ago, and had seen to it that the young master made it safely into the large porcelain container of water and foam, it was not difficult to understand that I was being called by my employer to return to that vicinity and to swiftly provide an answer to his unprovoked question. 

I opened the door which I had respectfully closed not long ago, and entered the bathroom. There is never a time when there is not a rise in my heart from the sight of the cheerful young master, even at those times when there are disagreements to sour our relations. In one sense of the word, Mr Wooster is bright. He is a kinder man than most, and the most gentle of employers who I have known in my considerable history. Therefore, I was glad to be in his company again, and to be in a position to bask in his good smile. However, as such emotion is not in accord with the circumstance of a valet who is at the service of his entirely unclothed master, I effected only to stand with my heels together and chin up. “If I assume correctly, sir,” I said, with eyes correctly averted from that which minute levels of foam were not enough to hide, “that you are referring to the SP in the context of horse racing, then the initials SP thus alluded to are short for Starting Price.” 

“Starting Price! Ah ha! I thought so. I was starting to grow concerned that I’d been thinking the wrong thing for all these years of my youth, and what a dashed silly thing to be wrong about! Thank you, Jeeves, you’ve put that fear far from my mind.” Yet Mr Wooster grimaced in uncertainty. “But, well, someone ought to let Cousin Eustace in on it. He didn’t think it was Starting Price, you know. Said yesterday that SP had to stand for something else. Said it didn’t make sense for the bally thing to be called the Starting Price when it ought to be called the Ending Price or something.”

“Sir?”

“Well, on account of it really being the last price that a horse goes for, right before the markets close, so to speak. If it’s called the Starting Price, it should be the market price at the start, not the market price at the end, what?” And though he spoke in a jesting tone, it seemed that Mr Wooster, if asked to tell why this was not the case, would be at a loss to produce the desired explanation.

I required no further prompting to supply the remedy to his unspoken problem. “If you’ll permit my saying so, sir, the Starting Price may be said to be the price of the horse around the start of the actual running of the horses, rather than at the start of the betting period.”

The light came into his heretofore unfocused eyes. “Oh.” He grinned. “It’s the start of the race itself! Right-ho! Why didn’t I see that?”

My service thus completed, I inwardly dreaded the unfortunate but necessary departure from the sight of him and his blithesome radiance. “Will that be all, sir?”

For the space of a few moments, Mr Wooster looked around the room. Eventually, he seemed to come upon something to his satisfaction, though he was only gazing at the sink mirror. “There’s something else I’ve always wondered,” he declared, “but never found the chap who could tell me. Possibly I might have asked one of the bookies, but one mustn’t trust any random bookie as one’s first authority.”

“A very sensible view, sir.”

“Well, what I mean to say, Jeeves, is that it never seemed right to me that a fellow can lose his stake on a non-runner. It’s not the sporting thing. It shouldn’t be allowed. Let me give you a thingummy at random. Cousin Claude threw down some money at four-to-five on, and lost it all before the race ever started, just because the beast got a slight headache and called the thing off.”

“The wager must have been on a horse which was not yet declared for the race, sir,” I explained patiently, every moment becoming more anxious that this was not a dialogue to be properly pursued while Mr Wooster was bathing. “Any wager placed on a horse before the declaration, an event which, as you possibly are already aware, is usually twenty-four hours before the race takes place, is also a wager that the horse will feature at all. A stake placed on an undeclared horse is lost. The outcome is different for a declared animal. A non-runner that was declared for the race, but which failed to make it as far as the starting line, is essentially violating the bookmaker’s promise that the horse would be raced. Since the aforementioned animal was not raced, the bookmaker must avoid argument with the bettor by returning the bettor’s stake in its entirety.”

“Oh.” He tapped his lip. “It’s part of the fine print of the declaration, then? It’s a jolly good thing for amateur chaps like me, then, who only bet on the day of.”

“Yes, sir.” I restrained the urge to speak in a hurry. Haste is not a becoming trait in a personal attendant. “Will that all be all, sir?”

“Wait. One more thing.” The words fell harshly on my cultivated sense of correct behaviour. Mr Wooster bit his lip in a struggle of concentrated thought. Eventually, he asked, “Why is a horse that’s got a going rate of five to four said to have a rate of four to five on? It ought to be five to four. That’s easier. And it goes with the rhythm of how things are done elsewhere. One wouldn’t need that extra little ‘on’ whatsit getting in the way of things, not to mention that tricky swapping of the numbers, if one just said five to four.”

“I confess that I do not know, sir. Perhaps the convention of the reversed phrasing for horses with a better-than-even chance emphasizes that the horse is estimated by the market to be more likely to win than to lose.”

“Oh. Is that it? If that’s really the nib, Jeeves, then I must register a protest. It’s silly, writing odds backwards for no good reason. Someone ought to fix it.”

Again, I waited to be dismissed. Once more, there was no dismissal forthcoming. 

“And why do people say they are ‘handicapping’ horses when they’re really just betting on them? Even when it’s not a handicap race, they call themselves handicappers. But we’re not handicapping. None of us spectators are going up to the horses, declaring which ones are too much faster than the others, and heaving the weights on the star pupils to appease the rest of the class.”

I saw that his desire to engage me in topics of equine entertainment was not to be abated anytime soon. An end had to be artificially produced. I breathed in through my nose, and proceeded with careful insistence. “Sir, it may be more suitable for these questions to be posed following the completion of your bathing.”

In response to my digression, Mr Wooster gave a pout that I can only characterize as loud. He flicked the surface of the water with his idle thumbs. “Oh, I don’t think so, Jeeves!” he exclaimed.

I was astonished. “Sir?”

“Oh, you might be right, that is, when the prevailing conditions are correct. A solitary bath is just what the doctor ordered, on most days. It’s not the place where a spontaneous social function is wanted. There’s a time when one wants to bathe in privacy. But there’s a time when one doesn’t mind a friend to talk to. This is one of those times. Today is just the day for a break in the routine. Today, after a life spent in the company of flighty twin cousins, and restless aunts, and ambitious beazels looking to get married out of spite with the first chap they find, I could make do with a sliver of hope for the human race.” He smiled handsomely at me. “In short, it bucks up a fellow to have his good man calmly tell him what an SP is. Settles the nerves, is what it does. It’s good, you know, having you around!”

His close, nervous gaze on my person had me unsettled in a way that was not unpleasant. I was flattered by his kind words, peculiar though they were. On the other hand, propriety offered very little in the way of a gentlemanly response to his appreciation of my companionship. “Really, sir,” I managed.

“I mean it, Jeeves!” Mr Wooster crossed his twitching arms. In these opinions, he was endeavouring to be firm. It must have been the case that he had pondered over them previously, and committed to them. “I won’t rescind what I said. You really are a furlong ahead of everyone else, and not solely because you’re so dashed competent. It’s the strangest thing. You’re so much more easily satisfied than everyone else, don’t you know? It’s simply not a stressor to be in the same room as you. Quite the opposite, in fact. I wonder how you do it. Were you born as all-knowing and at ease as a university professor?”

His flattery was unusual, though appreciated. “I really could not say, sir.”

“Comes naturally to the Jeevesian build, then, I suppose. You’re not awfully busy, are you? Is it asking too much for you to stay and tell me some more tidbits? You don’t need to stand up for it. You can sit on the toilet seat!” The horror of this suggestion must have been evident from the slight twitch of my eyebrow, and Mr Wooster hurried to amend his words. “Not the toilet seat, then,” he allowed. “How about a chair?”

“A chair, sir?”

“I can’t have you standing about for the duration, can I? Go fetch a seat, Jeeves.” A clenched fist crashed vigorously into the tensed water with a splash. “With all convenient speed!”

To this request, I found that I had no argument. Momentarily I quit the bathroom. Borrowing a tall chair from the kitchen, and repairing once more to the side of Mr Wooster, I sat as far from the bathtub as was still near enough to accommodate Mr Wooster’s wish for company.

I went on to explain to him the metaphorical usage of ‘handicapper’ to describe someone who mentally selects and weights horses based on their merit, with reference to the official handicapper who physically carries out these tasks in the handicap races. By this time, however, it was clear that it was merely the sound of my voice that he desired to hear, regardless of whatever innate appeal the topic might have for him. For this reason, I spoke at some presumptive length about why all racehorses may only be considered to be born on the first day of January (it is because the animals are more easily grouped by age when they are all said to have been born on the first day of their actual birth year) and without a great deal of further prompting from Mr Wooster.

–

It is in the first hours of the morning that I take my ablutions. My habit of bathing and preparing myself early ensures that I am ready to attend to the late-rising young master at all hours thereafter.

In this instance, however, which occurred approximately one week subsequent to the previous narrative, Mr Wooster happened to return home while I was still in the process of bathing. Consequently, upon hearing his entry into the flat, I began to rise and cover myself with a towel, so that I could make both myself and his bathroom available to him. 

Yet Mr Wooster surprised me, by entering the bathroom before both my legs were removed from the water. He was as fine-looking in his evening wear as he had been upon his departure not long ago, although, I regret to say, not entirely as well put together. “Jeeves!”

He did not seem to appreciate how awkward this position was. I made a point of covering as much of myself with the towel as I was able. “I will be out directly, sir.”

He blocked my path. “No, no, no, that’s not what I came in here for. I seem to have cut you off in the middle of your ritual. Please, don’t biff off on my account! There’s no need for you to be dressed for this.”

“Sir?”

“I have a bit or two to tell you, and it’s good stuff. No, really, I don’t need you out of the water, Jeeves, not while you’re in the middle of the regular wash.” Abruptly, he smirked. “There’s no need to stand on ceremony here, what?” he joked.

I understood the joke, but I was so baffled that I failed to generate much of a response. His request left me, I admit to myself, in a daze. With some difficulty and prolonged indecision, I abided by his wishes, as was my habit, and replaced myself into the water, feeling all the while that I really ought not to allow this to continue but lacking the context with which to address the situation.

“You see, I was at the races again today,” Mr Wooster started enthusiastically, “or yesterday, I suppose it was, and the inquisitive mood must have struck me, after all that talk we’d had about horse racing. I noticed something that’s always been off, but that I hadn’t taken notice of before. I think that I meant to ask you about it, as soon as I came round, but then I figured it out myself, not long after dinner. It came to me quite out of nowhere!” He sat on the toilet seat, his hands dancing erratically in his lap. “You know that the odds for some of the horses can be listed in not the simplest terms, like four to two, which should be two to one? Or twelve to ten, which should be, uh, six to five, right? Ah, I shouldn’t be making it a question, of course you would know all about it. Nothing escapes you, eh, Jeeves?”

“Sir,” I said, cautiously, hoping to insinuate to him that this was not an ideal situation for a proud valet to find himself in. He went on, without noticing my discomfiture. 

“Anyway, I was thinking about how those odds weren’t as concise and to the point as they could be, and I realized what it was all about. They do it to make comparisons easier. The four-to-two horses are always in races with some other four-to-one or four-to-three horse. So, it’s easier to compare horses with odds that are similar. Choosing a horse requires less mental effort; the four-to-two specimen would have double the confidence to win as the four-to-one horse.”

“Sir, I hesitate to introduce a counter opinion, but if you will permit me to do so, I should inform you that, while you are correct in proposing that the numbers are unsimplified for the sake of making comparisons between competing horses easier, the comparison is not made so direct. To borrow your example, sir, a four-to-two horse has a confidence of thirty-three percent chance to win, whereas a four-to-one horse has a confidence of twenty percent. The odds are not exactly double.”

“Oh.” Mr Wooster scratched his head, and gave the appearance of a man being made to stretch unused internal muscles. “I suppose you’re right. It’s not double. I should have thought the thing all the way through!”

My next remark was spoken quietly. “Will that be all, sir?”

“Um, well, I don’t know.” He hesitated. “I guess you want me to duck out now? I thought you might enjoy to hear about how the race actually played out. Not that I picked a winner, but Bingo—”

“Perhaps at some other time and place, sir.”

To his credit, he did erect himself onto his feet. He was visibly torn between leaving me, and remaining. Vacillating to and fro for some moments, he frowned significantly at himself. “Well, this hardly seems fair!” he exclaimed suddenly.

“Sir?”

“You kept me company while I was in the soap,” he said, with eager emotion. “Why can’t I do the same for you? That’s what friends do; give as good as they get, I mean. It seemed like you were in a slight downward trend yourself lately, and, well, it’s none of my business, yet it’s hard for a friend to ignore. But am I intruding on the Jeevesian alone time? You can tell me if I am. If you say that I am, then I’ll let you alone with a grin on the map and not an ounce of resentment.” He shook his head at himself. “Or, tell me, is it the Feudal Spirit I’m up against? That’s the ticket, isn’t it? Something about how you’re not dressed all prettily like usual? Well, if that’s it, then you can relay a message to it from one Bertie Wooster. Tail-coated or water-coated, Jeeves can count on me. Well, my company might not be as bucking-up as yours, but a Wooster can certainly give it his best effort anyway!”

I was deeply moved. In one area, he was partially mistaken: for him to seek me out and speak to me for no other reason than to engage my conversation was not an annoyance. It was, if I may use his words, as bucking-up a gesture as any I had ever received. This kindness of his produced in me a distinct and powerful sensation of peace. This sensation is often the result when he makes me the object of his attention. It originates somewhere in my upper chest cavity, I believe.

For the first time since he had come into the bathroom, the calm and contented state of mind for which he had praised me previously made itself mine again. I was very glad that he had named me his friend, even if my station prevented me from honouring him in the same fashion. I relaxed against the ceramic wall that circled me. My good feeling reached such heights that I suspect that I allowed him to see the hint of an upward-curved lip in my normally uneventful expression.

“By all means, sir,” I said. This went against the comfortable expectations of a valet, but my remaining by him evidently pleased him a great deal, and the friendly gratitude and affection that he beamed was of such beautiful warmth that I was comfortable with him all the same. 

He launched into his story. He is an exceedingly captivating storyteller; though he is a touch verbose on occasion, he is impressively capable of following chronological order. It was more than agreeable to say nothing, and listen to him while he shouted and whispered and laughed without compunction. 

End.


End file.
